Massaging Josh

JOSH

Courier Driver

Courier drivers can frequently be observed delivering things in my neighbourhood.

It is not unusual to see a person in uniform hurrying from a parked van into a house with packets, parcels or a box to complete his deliveries in a manner which either indicates that he has a full schedule for the day, or that he is running later than anticipated. Or, maybe, that he has something planned to go to.

Occasionally, one of those deliveries is for me and, even though most of the drivers are `regulars', I'm always happy to be surprised by somebody new.

Some deliveries require a signature. Some don't. Either way, it is rare than any courier would have the time to linger and chat.

Also, it was not a rarity, but unusual, to see a delivery van mid-afternoon. Most deliveries for me come in the morning. I've wondered about that.

Anyway, I recall perfectly the day that, when I heard the front door bell and looked out of my massage clinic window to see a UPS van parked in my driveway, just off the street.

I had been expecting a couple of items and had presumed that I would see one of the regular drivers, in one of the usual company vans.

I immediately wondered which of my orders required a UPS delivery.

Opening the front door, I was pleasantly surprised for two reasons: firstly, I could tell that it was my new massage bed had only been ordered the day before yesterday, and secondly, there, in front of me, stood a new delivery driver. A young one!

Our conversation went like this:

Smiling, he asks, "Box for Mr Armstrong?" Which is the standard line for `Am I in the right place?' and `Are you the right person?'

"Yes, that would be me," I answer, then add, "Would it be too much trouble to ask you to bring it around to the door at the side of the house, so that I don't have to carry it through the living room?"

I point towards the driveway.

"No trouble at all, Mr Armstrong," he replies, picking up the box which he had leant against the wall, by the front door.

It is obviously not light, but the strapping gives him a secure hand-hold.

I watch him as he walks back to where the path joins the driveway.

Did I say `watch him'? I meant `study him'. As a massage therapist, I have an eye for a good body with good muscle tone. He appears to have both, clearly demonstrated by how his grey uniform, both trousers and shirt, highlight the contours of his body.

I close the front door, cross the living area, enter my clinic room, then pass through the ensuite and open the side door, just as he reaches it.

"Please, come in," I say, and I lead the way.

I now see that his glutes and thighs aren't the only side of his body which is accentuated by his neatly-fitting uniform! His shirt defines his firm, but not oversized, pec muscles and his slim waist. His tailored shorts show off his well-developed quad muscles and an obvious roundness in his groin area. You couldn't call it a `bulge', per se, but it's sufficient to indicate the presence of something significant.

"Can you please rest it over against that wall... umm...?" My upwards inflexion is an indirect way of asking his name.

"It's `Josh', Mr Armstrong," he tells me, bending his knees to put it down.

I compliment him, "I can see, Josh, that you have been well taught in lifting and carrying techniques."

"Yes, Mr Armstrong," he says. "It was part of my initial training that the company stressed. If I wreck my back, I don't work. And if I don't work, I don't get paid. And if I don't get paid... Well, you know how it goes."

"Very smart, Josh," I say. "But, could you please do something else for me?"

"Sure, Mr Armstrong. What would you like?" he replies, exhibiting a genuine desire to be helpful.

"Can you please call me `Rob'? My father and grandfather were always `Mr Armstrong' and hearing it applied to me just makes me feel old."

He looks me up and down. "Well, you would have to be the fittest and youngest-looking old man that I've ever seen," he says boldly, smiling. Then he adds, "...Rob."

I smile back at his humour. "And, Josh, you are one of the fittest and most alert young delivery drivers that I've ever had knock on my door."

He's no introvert, I can tell.

"I don't think that's correct, Mr... Rob," he replies.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Because I didn't knock on your door. I rang your bell," he responds with a smirk.

"So, I was right!" I tell him. To his inquiring face I add, "Fit, young, alert and smart."

"Thank you," he says, pulling an electronic gadget from a pouch attached to his belt. "Would you please sign in the space on the screen to indicate that you've taken delivery of the box?"

"Certainly," I tell him, taking the device and stylus from him and I `make my special hieroglyph in the small rectangle on the screen. "Many more deliveries today, Josh?" I ask, seeing that he appears in no hurry to make a dash for the door and his van.

"No, Rob," he says. "Finished for the day now. You were my last delivery. It's been a pretty quiet day actually."

"So, what do you plan to do now?" I ask, making conversation, while surreptitiously checking his physical attributes. "Head back to the depot? Or do you take the van home at night?"

"No, the van goes back to the depot," he replies, smiling. "It'll be checked, refuelled and loaded for tomorrow. And, in the morning, I'll get a detailed delivery schedule to follow. A computer program estimates all of the delivery times and even calculates the best route for me to follow."

"Amazing! Is that usual these days?" I put to him.

"I don't think so," he tells me, then adds, "And, some of our drivers don't like their van being tracked like a tagged animal. But I don't mind. The system works pretty well for me. Besides, I do the suburbs and usually don't have to deal with traffic chaos like some guys do in the inner-city areas."

"So, do they track wherever you are, all through the day?" I ask, beginning to understand why some people would object to that.

"Yeah," he replies. "That way, with additional real-time feedback from my PDA about what is signed for, it becomes obvious on the office monitoring system whether something is unlikely to be delivered as scheduled. Then, the organisation can take action, sometimes having the driver return to the depot so that part of his load can be given to somebody else who is available and nearby. Then, both drivers receive a new route print-out. When I finish my deliveries, I am still on standby until I return to the depot and `sign out'," he says grinning.

I like his broad smile above the slight dimple in his chin! And, the remnant of freckles across his nose makes him look younger than he may actually be, but it's the friendly gaze of his alluring, hazel eyes that fascinate me most of all. Fit, young, alert, smart and attractive!

"Then, I'd better stop talking and let you get the van back to the depot, eh?" I say.

"I'm happy to chat, Rob," he comments. "Besides, I was going to ask you about your massages. It's ages since I had a good massage. Do you give good massages?"

Hearing his own question, he looks away, embarrassed, I think, then, raising his eyes to my array of certificates and memberships on the wall, he adds, almost apologetically, "Of course you do! Or you wouldn't... be buying new equipment."

"Come back anytime if you want to talk or ask me questions," I reply, and hand him one of my business cards. "Or, just call me."

He scans the card, gives me a `thumbs-up', and says, "Thanks, Rob. I'll do that."

I see him to the door, and step out to watch his fine-looking body sashay back along the drive towards the van. At the end of the driveway he glances behind him and, seeing me still watching, he waves.

I have a good feeling about Josh!

It's not fifteen minutes later that my phone rings. I don't recognise the number calling.

"Good afternoon. This is Rob," I answer.

It's my usual greeting for people whose details I haven't previously recorded in my phone.

I hear, "Hi Rob. This is Josh... the delivery guy. Do you have time to talk?"

This is a pleasant surprise!

I recognise his polite, baritone voice immediately. Manly, but with a youthful lilt.

"Of course, Josh," I reply, and add, "So, were there any additional jobs waiting for you when you got back to the depot?"

"No. All good," he says. "Now I have some extra time to grab a coffee and to think about what I'll do for dinner."

"Where are you now?" I ask.

"Just about to leave the depot," he says.

"Which way are you heading?" I inquire.

"Sort of back in your direction. My place is another ten minutes past yours."

"Why don't you drop in?" I put to him. "We can share a coffee, and chat about anything, even massages if you like."

"Really?" he asks. "Aren't you busy? You don't mind?"

"Of course not," I tell him. "I have no more clients tonight, and I'd be happy for the company. I've just finished setting up the new table and was about to make a coffee for myself. I'll wait for you."

"Wonderful. Thank you," I hear. "See you in about five to ten minutes."

I suddenly feel as nervous as a kid waiting for Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. I'm not sure whether it's his personality and willingness to sit down and chat for a while that's causing it, or the possibility of me booking him in for a massage, and getting my hands on this handsome young guy's firm muscles. The thought of that possibility causes an involuntary stirring in my trousers.

I change into my track pants and monogrammed, white polo shirt, and keep checking my watch while I ensure that the place is tidy, even though I cleaned and straightened everything after my last client, earlier.

He was right about the time! A little more than seven minutes since he rang, I hear a car pull into my driveway. I suppose that his ability to accurately estimate time comes with the job, eh?

I open the front door and take a few steps down the path towards where he has parked his immaculate black and chrome SUV. He is just standing, looking back and forth from my side door to the front door.

Spotting me, he calls, "I wasn't sure which doorbell to ring."

He has removed the tie part of his uniform and his work shirt is now open at the neck. With a couple of extra buttons undone, I can see the curves of his pec muscles.

"It wouldn't have mattered," I reply smiling and extending my hand as I reach him. "They both have different tones, so I always know which door to answer."

He grasps and shakes my hand firmly. Another Brownie point for him! "Thanks for letting me drop by, Rob," he says.

"My pleasure, Josh," I reply. "Come in."

"So, how do you like your coffee?" I ask him. "Instant? Nespresso? Strong? Weak? Black? Milk? And sugar, or are you sweet enough?" I smile at him, and wonder how he will react to my boldness.

"What kinds of milk do you have?" he smirks.

My pause must be long enough for my mouth to drop open, because I feel the need to close it.

"Just kidding!" he laughs. "I couldn't resist, after the coffee menu that you offered me. Would a strong Nespresso, black with one sugar be OK, please?"

"Fit, young, alert, smart and with a sense of humour! I like that." I tell him, recalling our earlier exchange. I omit the `attractive' thoughts; well, I don't voice them aloud, that is.

I smile. Actually, it's more of a knowing smirk.

"What?" he asks.

"I was about to offer you `large or small; normal or decaf?' but too many options could give you a headache," I reply.

"Then I might really need a stress-relieving massage, mightn't I?" he smiles back.

"When was the last time you had a massage?" I put to him. "You said that it was ages since you've had one."

"I think what I actually said was that it was ages since I'd had `a good one'," he corrects me.

"Touché!" I tell him. "You're building up quite a profile: fit, young, alert, smart, sense of humour AND an excellent memory."

Again, I don't voice my `attractive' or `handsome' thoughts.

He ignores my compliments, apart from giving me a devilish smile.

He says, "I was telling one of my friends a couple of weeks ago about liking regular massages and how good they feel after carrying stuff around for days. Then he shared with me that he, himself, had just received the best one of his life. I think that he was playing with my head because he wouldn't tell me any details. At first, I thought that he was lying, because, the more I asked about it, the more evasive he became."

"Why?" is my simple question.

"I still don't know," Josh replies. "Maybe because he didn't have to pay for it."

"Really?" I reply. "Well, freebies are always good."

Without any prompting from me, he continues, "Well, almost a freebie. He owes his massage therapist a few hours of manual labour, as some kind of a contra deal. That much he did say. But he didn't say who it was or where he was located."

My heart jumps. My mind says, `Hayden'! Even from the little that Josh has disclosed, it's already too much of a coincidence to not be Hayden. This could go either very well, or very badly!

I decide to override my normally-impetuous nature, and `play dumb'.

"Well, it mustn't have been that good, if your friend won't tell you any details about what he liked that made it so amazing!" I say.

"He didn't actually say `amazing'," Josh replies. "He just said that it was the best one of his life."

Maybe it isn't Hayden. He had never had a massage prior to that day, as I remember. It was his one and only.

"But I suppose a person would say that, though, wouldn't they?" Josh continues, "if it was the first and only one that he'd ever had!"

Bingo! I'm convinced now that he's talking about Hayden!

"So, did your friend tell you why he ended up getting a massage if he'd never had one prior to that day?" I put to him.

"No. Well, not really. Except that he hurt is back at work and it needed some attention," Josh adds.

"And, did he say how he located the world's best massage therapist?" I smile at him, attempting to display a bit of positive sarcasm.

"That much he did tell me," Josh says. "Actually, it was the massage therapist that found him."

"What? Lying on the ground, in pain?" I suggest. "Like the Biblical story of the Good Samaritan?"

"Nothing so dramatic!" he says. "Hayden was working at the local golf club where he hurt his back and later, when he served some food to this person in the dining room, they got to talking, and pretty soon the deal was done."

Confirmed! It's Hayden. 100%! Spilled from Josh's own mouth! Should I say something? No! House rule! It appears that Hayden has kept his part of the agreement; and not only about what happened in the room..., so I will too.

I invite Josh to sit at the kitchen table. "Strong Nespresso, black. And you can add your own sugar. Raw or natural?"

"Way too many options," he replies. "I feel a stress headache coming on!"

"So, you want to talk `massages', do you?" I put to him.

"Seems like we've already started, haven't we?" He smiles back at me.

"What do you want to know?" I ask. "Do you have any questions?"

"Umm, well," he starts, "do you specialise in any type of massage? And what do you charge?"

"Nothing like getting straight to the point!" I reply. "Sixty dollars for an hour, but I don't charge extra if I go a bit over that."

"Why is it so cheap?" Josh asks. "In the past I have paid ninety. I thought you said that you were good!"

"My turn to remember the details," I tell him. "Actually, it was you who asked me the question earlier about whether I give good massages. Then you answered it yourself. `Of course you do!' you told me, without waiting for any assessment of my own ability."

"You've got me!" he laughs.

"So, would you like to find out how good I am?" I put to him.

"Nice marketing segue," he replies. "But, hey, one thing at a time. You haven't told me yet what you specialise in."

"Oops!" I say. "Sorry. Yes, well my speciality is... giving good massages."

"Very funny!" he says, and takes a gulp of coffee.

"It might be funny, if it wasn't true!" I say, smiling, then filling my mouth as well.

I wait for him to re-start the discussion.

"So, when can I put this marketing claim of yours to the test?" he asks.

"Whenever you like," I say. "I can check my future availability, or we can do it now."

"Now is good," he comments, almost too eagerly. But I might need to duck home for a shower first."

"For a person who seems to be excellent on details, Josh, didn't you notice how the ensuite was set up earlier?" I put to him. "Toilet, basin and ... shower."

There is a pause while he thinks about it.

I continue, "I have a number of clients who come straight from a hard day's work, and they appreciate a good shower as much as a good massage."

"OK. Let's do it," he says. "But I get to finish this good coffee first! OK?"

"You drive a hard bargain," I smile at him.

"Do you take credit cards?" he asks.

"Aha! That's the reason I only charge sixty instead of ninety," I say. "No cards. Cash only. You win. I win."

"No problem," he replies, and empties his coffee cup. "Let's go!"

He follows me into the clinic room. I hand him a fresh towel, and say, "The shower is all yours. Just come out when you're ready. You can please yourself whether you put your undies back on or just wrap the towel around you. You've had massages before. The choice is up to you."

"What do your other clients do?" he asks.

"Some prefer option one. Some prefer option two." I say. Then, testing the waters, I add, "And a few prefer option three."

"What's option three?" he asks.

"Think about it while you are showering," I tell him. "I'll be in the kitchen. Call me when you're ready."

As he steps into the ensuite, I start the background music playing on low, close the door behind me and wait in the kitchen.

"Ready, Rob!" I hear.

When I re-enter the clinic room, I see that he has opted for the towel.

"I worked out what option three is," he says, smiling at me, "but decided that the towel was a good compromise between the undies and nothing at all."

"Good choice for your first time!" I tell him.

He looks at me, contemplates the `first time' implication, and laughs, "Copy that! But, only if you're good."

"Before we start, there is a little bit of red tape," I say, matter-of-factly. "A form with some details for insurance purposes, and a `House Rule'."

"Yeah. I anticipated the form," he replies. "But, what's this about a house rule?"

"Whatever happens in the room stays in the room. Confidentiality! I don't tell: You don't tell. OK?"

There is a short period of silence while I see the wheels turning in his head. "Excellent!" he finally replies, then takes the pen and gives me his details.

"OK. You probably know how this all works," I tell him. "Face in the hole this end of the table and feet over the bolster at the other end. Oh, and you should untuck the towel, or it could become very uncomfortable." I point to where the somewhat bulky tuck is positioned.

"I know exactly what you mean," he smirks, giving the lump in the front of the towel a jiggle.

I nod, smile and give him a `thumbs-up'.

As he releases the towel, he expertly lays himself on the table.

His covered, muscular backside and legs are prominent.

"Is there any area of your body in particular that you need me to work on?" I ask.

"A good massage therapist can work that out!" I can almost hear a smile emanating from beneath the table, through the hole.

I'm tempted to slap his backside, but simply say, "You want to time me?"

He laughs.

It takes no more than sixty seconds before he flinches and I hear the first `ouch'.

"Nice work!" I hear after that.

"You'd better save the compliments for when I'm finished," I tell him.

It takes me five minutes to carefully `explore' neck to feet, and I note the half-dozen `ouch' points; not unexpectedly, given his type of work, near his shoulder blades, his glutes and his hamstrings.

I work his upper back first. Groans of pain become expressions of relief.

After his lower back and upper glutes, I switch to his legs. I start at their extremity and work my way upwards. Feet, calves, hamstrings.

I re-position the towel so that it covers one side of his body while fully exposing the other, upon which I work from his upper back to his thigh, with a focus on his glutes.

There are ouches, groans, moans and sighs.

"How are we doing?" I ask him.

"Hey. No compliments until you're finished. Remember?" he says.

This time, with one of his cheeks fully exposed, I don't refrain from a friendly slap.

There is no complaint. No groan. No moan. But the chuckle is unexpected. I think that we share a playful sense of humour.

I swap the towel to the other side, rubbing the exposed half, working into an `ouch' point, and giving his cheek a slap.

"What was that for?" he asks.

"I wouldn't want one side to be jealous!" I tell him. "At least now you have matching hand-prints!"

"Funny!" he cackles through the hole.

I reposition the towel so that it is across his body, again covering his backside and thighs.

"OK." I tell him. "It's time."

"For what?" he asks.

"To turn over." I wait for any reaction.

"Right now?" he asks.

"Is that a problem?" I ask, grinning, even though he can't see my face.

"That depends," he says.

"On what?" I reply.

"On whether or not I'll be embarrassed at your reaction," he says hesitantly.

"It happens to young guys nine times out of ten," I tell him, without elaborating. "Especially when I've been working on their glutes and inner thighs."

"I was almost managing to keep things under control, until you slapped me," he confesses. "The shock waves really set it off!"

"House rule!" I remind him. "I'll hold up the towel for you while you roll over, then I'll lay it down again."

"OK," he mutters, with a half-groan of inevitability.

I reach across his body, take hold of the opposite side of the towel and hold it up, to provide him a measure of discreet freedom as he rolls over.

As he moves, he focuses on my face, with no hint of embarrassment. His eyes simply convey confidence in my House Rule.

I lay the towel back across his body. "Hey! Nice tent!" I say, and look at his face. I smile.

He smirks back.

"OK. That's the worst of your tension dealt with," I tell him. "Now you can relax!"

"Easy for you to say," Josh tells me. He lifts his head, focuses on `the tent' which jerks. He lays his head back down.

I lower the upper side of the towel sufficiently to expose as much of his abdomen as possible while maintaining the tent covering. I pull both edges of the towel down a little farther, deliberately causing the tent to rise with it, like a marionette on strings. I relax the tension on the towel. The tent lowers. I do it again. Increased tension. It rises. Relaxed tension. It lowers. And once more, I draw it farther still, causing his tent to look more like a vertical tent pole. And down.

Josh's head lifts. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"Just looking for the best position for everything." I smile at him, taking my hands off the towel.

"Well, I hope you've found it," he says. Then he smirks, "Because I was starting to really enjoy that!"

He reaches for his erection and gives it a squeeze and jiggle.

"Tuck your hands under your hips," I tell him.

He does, and I start to work into his pecs, then right and left to include his upper arms.

His nipples are erect.

I brush over them lightly, then more heavily, and move to his abs. I watch his tent jump then settle back down.

I work back and forth across his abs and, as I move lower towards his curly brown hairs, the back of my hand begins to make contact with the contents of the tent. I can feel the firmness. At each touch, it jerks.

"Sorry," I say.

"Don't be!" he replies. "It doesn't mind. And neither do I."

"Almost unavoidable," I tell him.

"It's OK. Really." He smiles at me. "House rule! Remember? You don't tell; I don't tell."

I take hold of both ends of the towel and turn it so that it lies lengthwise down the middle of his body, chin to knees. I bunch it so that both hips are exposed. I tuck the lower end between his legs, which he parts to accommodate what I'm doing.

I work on his quads, with extra attention to his inner thighs. Both legs. I finish by rubbing all the way from his knee, over his exposed hip and finish on his pec. Three times. Each side.

He has begun to moan, pleasurably. His eyes are closed

With Josh being Hayden's friend, and with Hayden telling me that he is gay, I'm guessing that the two of them might possibly have had a bit of `physical fun' together, so I take the next bit very cautiously, to gauge his reaction.

I move to his feet and take hold of the towel. I draw it slowly and deliberately downwards, with the movement rubbing continuously along his erection. I watch his face.

Josh says nothing, until I stop just short of exposing his pole.

He raises his head and looks, almost pleadingly, at me. "Why did you stop? You gonna keep going?" he asks.

"Do you want me to?" I reply.

"Yeah. Do it!" he answers softly.

I do. All the way down. Slowly.

For the first time I actually see the cause of the lump that I had noticed in his shorts when he delivered the table, and again when covered the towel. Healthy-sized cock and very ample balls which are partially obscured between his thighs.

"House rule!" he reminds me.

"Now what would you like?" I ask him.

"House rule?" he replies, fully liberating his balls and giving his hard cock a bit of a tug, and looking directly into my eyes.

"What? You want me to massage the bits that I've missed?" I ask him.

"Yeah. Please." he asks. "Would you? Is that OK?"

"Can do," I tell him. "Just for you. If you're sure."

"I won't tell," he replies. "We both agreed to your house rule, didn't we? You don't tell; I don't tell."

"Not even to your friend! OK?" I insist, seriously on the outside, but laughing on the inside at my own knowledge of his `secret' friend.

"You have my word, Rob," he says, "except, maybe, to bet him that my latest massage was better than his. But, without the details."

I smile, but Josh doesn't understand the irony of what is running through my mind.

"Relax," I tell him, noting an amount of his precum being exuded, in anticipation.

He lays himself back and closes his eyes.

I squirt some massage oil onto my hands, rub them together and start with his balls. Cradling. Rolling, Juggling. Rubbing. Tickling. Tugging gently.

He moans.

I reach down to his perineum and follow the firmness upwards, parting his balls, and continuing all the way from the base of his shaft, which I enclose in my oily hand, then continue, firmly, all the way to the head, and hold it.

Again he moans, lifting his hips off the table and pushing his cock into my enclosing fist.

"Relax!" I tell him, and I urge my hand down his length again.

"Oh, that feels so good. You have no idea!" he rasps.

"Hey, no compliments until I've finished, remember?" I smirk at him.

I continue my manipulation of him; up, down and around. His nice balls are not forgotten.

We get into a rhythm of him thrusting into my fist whenever I reach the head of his cock and my hand starts to head down again. I enjoy the spectacle of watching his balls bounce with each of his thrusts.

"You like that, don't you?" I ask him.

"Oooh, yes," he moans. "This is amazing."

"Hey! I'm not finished yet. Save the compliments," I remind him.

He's in a too-ecstatic state, short of breath, to laugh.

"Slow down!" I suddenly hear.

"Take deep breaths," I tell him. "It will help."

He does. It does.

We go through the edging a couple of times, then when he says, "I can't hold back any longer," I keep my firm grip stationary while he grunts and thrusts. Rapidly. Then he freezes.

His balls gyrate in their sacs and I feel his eruption coming, then he sprays his upper body copiously, panting and groaning with each prolific spurt.

He slumps onto the table, and finally squeaks out, "Fuck, that was amazing!"

He opens one eye, and looks at me.

"It's good to see that you've finally relaxed," I smile at him, laying a towel on his cum-streaked body, so that he can clean himself. "So, do I pass the `good' test?" I put to him, teasing.

He smiles, and speaks. "Good? That was worth way more than sixty bucks! Even more than the ninety that I usually pay a few times a month. I don't suppose you have room for a new, regular client?"

"Of course," I say, then add, "Have you thought about `option three'?"

"Yes, but I think I'll be sticking to option two," he replies. "What you did with the towel was a real turn-on."

"Do I take that as a compliment?" I smile at him. "Now that we've finished?"

He laughs, "Absolutely!"

Then, I notice him studying the front of my track pants. My erection is poorly-concealed, even lying sideways. "It looks as though I wasn't the only one who enjoyed it." He comments.

"Yeah. Well, you weren't the only one turned on. But I can deal with it after dinner," I say.

"Don't suppose you'd like me to deal with it for you?" he asks.

I think of Hayden and of his potential relationship with Josh.

"I couldn't ask a client to do that!" I tell him.

Once again, his smartness jumps to the fore. "Firstly, you didn't ask me. And secondly..." He pauses. "I would really enjoy giving you a hand. If we wait a while, I reckon that I could even cum again. I'm already hard. What do you say?"

He reaches for the front of my trackies and wraps his hand around my erection which jerks at the contact. And he does a lot more than just hold it, having a good exploratory feel.

"It looks like you and my little friend have just shaken hands on the deal," I say.

"Your friend isn't so little!" he says, smiling at me, without letting go.

"What about giving me a hand after dinner?" I put to him. "You want to have dinner with me? Something quick and simple? Really quick?"

After a minute or so of mutual fondling of our two raging hard-ons, we manage to desist and head for the kitchen.

My newest client, Josh, says, "My only regret is that I won't be able to brag to Hayden why I reckon my latest massage would have been so much better than his! House rule!"

"Is that his name?" I ask, laughing, at least inwardly.

"Oops! House Rule!" he smirks.

If you like these stories, please take a couple of minutes to email me at
rob.zz@hotmail.com

I do try to reply to everyone. Please be patient.

-----

It is my intention to write a `massaging' story for each letter of the alphabet.
Nifty has already posted `Adam', `Brock', `Callum', `Dylan', `Evan', `Flynn', `Gino' `Hayden', and `Isaac'.
I think that `Gino' is one of my better works; however, it's in a different location: http://nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/massaging-gino/

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